


American Ravens

by feverbeats



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lies like Molokov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Ravens

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warning: gunplay.

**Merano**

Walter de Courcey is the best liar Molokov has ever met. He lies with the ease of someone whose confidence is so intense that he changes the world around him to conform to what he believes. He lies like someone who has never lost. He lies like Molokov.

From the first handshake, Molokov knows what de Courcey is, because liar he may be, but there's a gun under his jacket.

Molokov smiles a little wider at that. He likes guns. He can deal with guns.

He's surprised, on the second night there, to find himself at the Merano hotel bar with de Courcey. Anatoly is being a maniac again, so Molokov has escaped gracefully to get himself pleasantly intoxicated. De Courcey doesn't look like he's escaping from anything.

He shoots Molokov a measured look. "So, how many languages do _you_ speak?"

Molokov gives de Courcey his most genuine smile. "Oh, I can manage about three." _Eight_ , he estimates in the back of his mind.

De Courcey laughs like he knows Molokov is lying. "Hey, let me buy you a drink. What'll you have?"

"Thank you. Vodka." Molokov isn't really in the mood to play games.

If de Courcey notices the Russian cliché drink of choice, he doesn't say anything. Molokov reassesses his opinion of the man slightly.

"So," de Courcey says, once they have their drinks in hand, "You must be pretty good at chess. Working with Sergievsky and all." He smiles.

"And you," Molokov returns, "you must be terribly good at this news reporting." So they both know where they stand.

De Courcey gives a surprised little laugh. "Well, yeah, actually, I am. Hey, want to talk somewhere else? I don't like the look of that bartender."

Secret agent paranoia jokes as a sign of solidarity? Molokov likes de Courcey more and more. He decides to up the stakes, just to be sure. "My rooms are the largest in the hotel. Perhaps we'd be most comfortable there."

De Courcey smiles a little nastily as he stands up. "Sounds good to me."

Molokov keeps his eyes on the gun in de Courcey's jacket. Neither of them says the words KGB or CIA.

Molokov's rooms _are_ large, but they feel too small as soon as he gets de Courcey into them. Molokov can take any man in any way, but he's not used to people who actually seem to know what they're doing. He shouldn't even be doing this, really. He's only authorized to keep Anatoly happy. Then again, his superiors didn't know the CIA would be here. A little seduction practically authorizes itself.

De Courcey gives a low whistle as he looks around. "You weren't kidding about your rooms. Who'd you swindle to wind up in here?"

Molokov doesn't mention the fact that he mostly threw a fit. That's how he usually gets his way, but that might not impress this American CIA man. "Make no mistake, our delegation has had to work hard to garner the respect it deserves."

De Courcey takes a few—expectedly predatory—steps toward Molokov. "Well, I can't imagine why that would be."

Molokov has been fucked by men like him before, self-assured men who thought Molokov was a whore and little else. They weren't CIA agents, though. Molokov steps forward to meet de Courcey, the edge of his suit jacket just barely touching the other man's hand, and he finds himself fighting a brief surge of wistfulness. This is a man he actually has things in _common_ with; he shouldn't be ruining everything by making sex into business.

Ah, but he's forgetting. Sex will always be business. Allowing it to be anything else would suddenly make him more liability than asset.

He presses himself against de Courcey so that there is no mistaking his meaning. "I think you should take your jacket off."

"Wow," de Courcey says, his hands coming up to grip Molokov's arms, "You really don't mince words, do you, Mr. Molokov?"

 _Mince words._ Molokov has trained hard to know English and American idioms, but he didn't know that one. He likes it. Instead of answering, he slides his hands under de Courcey's jacket, pressing against his sides and slipping the jacket off his shoulders. While he's doing it, he gets a good grip on the other agent's gun.

Molokov holds the gun, concealed by the jacket, lightly in his hand while leaning up to kiss de Courcey.

Then de Courcey, while kissing him back rather violently, grabs Molokov's wrist. Molokov tries to pull away.

"You’re good, doll," de Courcey says, smiling that used-car-salesman smile as his grip on Molokov's wrist tightens. "You're real good. But you're not as good as me."

Molokov realizes with a shock that de Courcey might be _right_. He forces his face not to betray the fact that he's both very worried and very aroused. He considers playing dumb, but he won't disrespect de Courcey, at least in that way. "Does that mean you don't want to fuck me?"

De Courcey laughs. "You sleeping with Sergievsky?"

Molokov forces a laugh. "Are you sleeping with Trumper?"

De Courcey gives him an unreadable look. "No," he says.

"Then as long as we are clear that neither of us is sleeping with the man our government sent us to watch . . ." He doesn't say _protect_ , because he knows Trumper's reputation.

A little later, they're both naked. The lights are off, which is a good thing, because Molokov probably couldn't stand to look at de Courcey's smug face.

Later still, Molokov, to his horror, finds himself whimpering and _meaning_ it. He needs, he should set up an audio recording device, he should—de Courcey licks a strip of heat across his collarbone, and Molokov makes an incoherent sound. "Oh, _please_ ," he says, and then he realizes he's said it in Russian. He's losing it.

Afterwards, de Courcey rolls away from Molokov almost immediately, going for his clothes. Molokov is thoroughly out of breath, so he lies still for a second, so by the time de Courcey has his gun in his hand, it's too late.

"Put it please fucking _down_." Molokov's syntax slips in his panic.

De Courcey rests the gun against Molokov's hip. "I'm not going to shoot you. That wouldn't exactly be diplomatic, would it?" He has the nerve to smile, teeth white in the dark. "I want us to be able to get along."

Molokov is calling himself every name he can think of in his head for not thinking faster, not being prepared, for being _played_ like one of the men he seduces—It occurs to him suddenly and horribly that perhaps de Courcey has had similar training. "I would like for us to get along as well," he grinds out, unable to do anything else.

De Courcey slides the gun over Molokov's hip, the cool metal nestling in the hollow of his pelvis. "Great." De Courcey's voice is cheerful and neutral as before. "Then we should be just fine. Just wanted to make sure we understand each other." He slides the gun across Molokov's belly, the tip nosing against his flesh.

Molokov feels as though he cannot swallow. He wonders if de Courcey knows what it means to have a gun pointed at you like this, the level of visceral fear it invokes—But he looks up and sees that de Courcey is simply smiling at him.

So Molokov shoves down all the fear and tilts his hips until the barrel of the gun is pressed hard against his skin. "Foreplay after orgasm? Unusual."

De Courcey laughs, sounding startled again, before removing the gun. "I'll remember that for next time. Glad we're on the same page." He sets about getting dressed and putting his gun into his discarded briefcase, keeping one eye on Molokov.

Molokov appreciates being throught of as even that dangerous after the display he's just given. He should be fired on the spot.

De Courcey shuts his briefcase with a click and a smile. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Molokov."

"Please," Molokov says a little too quickly, "Alexander." He still has a chance to play it off all right, to make them allies instead of enemies. He mirrors de Courcey's smile. "After all, if we are going to do business together . . ." He leaves the rest up to de Courcey.

De Courcey grins. "I can live with that. Just don't call me Walt. None of my real friends call me Walt.”  
Molokov wants to say that no one has ever called him by a nickname in his life, but instead, he just nods and watches Walter walk out the door thinking he's won.

Molokov swears it won't happen again, won't _need_ to, but somehow, it does. De Courcey-- _Walter_ has a nice smile and Molokov could really get something out of an American government agent, and—

And he enjoys it. He enjoys sleeping with someone who understands exactly what it is and isn't. He enjoys having to fight to get the upper hand, and he especially enjoys getting it from time to time. He enjoys it when Walter takes his gun out and shoves it between his legs and makes Molokov suck it.

It's getting to the point where Molokov's pretty certain he's going to wind up getting shot in the face when Anatoly defects and it all goes to hell.

 **Bangkok**

The next year, everything is horribly complicated. Sleeping with a CIA agent when you already have one strike against you (that's more than most people in his country get) is nearly too dangerous to contemplate. For some reason, though, he finds the idea of going back to Walter _comforting_. It isn't love (can't be, won't be, they're not that kind of people), but it's easy. Against all likelihood, he trusts Walter, although he'd prefer not to give him any kind of power.

Molokov understands Walter, anyway, which is clearly more than he did with Anatoly. Anatoly, the world's biggest mistake.

So when he has to flee from Anatoly hanging all over that woman's arm, or from Trumper and his maladjusted, vicious, _ineffectual_ rage, he flees to Walter.

Tonight, he's naked in Walter's bed, with Walter's gun pressed against his jaw more like a teddy bear than a threat.

Walter is still wearing his ridiculous white suit that Molokov informed him made him look like a faggot. Walter just grinned and took him to bed.

They've been discussing what to do about Anatoly. "I have a plan," Walter says.

Molokov has known Walter for a while now, so he says, "Shit." He may respect Walter's abilities in some areas, but knowing people's weak points isn't one of them.

Walter glares. "Okay, we'll talk about it afterwards. Maybe you'll be able to focus better then." He slides the gun lazily along Molokov's jaw and says, "Hey, would you let me fuck you with this?"

Molokov considers, wishing he were less naked and mostly less _easy_. "No," he says eventually. "I am not interested in dying, Walter."

"But you'd let me do it, right?" Walter demands, looking Molokov up and down as if to unlock him.

Molokov also wishes he weren't hard. "No," he says again.

"We should play around with that sometime. With saying no." Walter shrugs at him pleasantly, like a very kindly shark.

Molokov draws a sharp breath and nuzzles against the gun, furious with himself for being run by his libido. The last thing someone in his position should be doing is playing with guns and consent, let alone with a fucking _CIA agent_. He thinks perhaps there is a reason he got shoved on the chess circuit.

"I missed you," Walter says suddenly, his voice low and intense.

Molokov fights a full-body shiver. "You cannot mean that." He wishes Walter would go back to being horribly sharp.

Walter pulls back a little, looking at him. "I do, though. We were good, last year. Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking about love or some bullshit like that. But we were good."

Molokov smiles, hearing his thoughts translated into Walter's mouth. "How could we help but be good?" He turns on his incredibly stupid American accent. "We're a team, sugar."

Walter shivers hard and then looks annoyed about it. "Oh, fuck _off_. Hey, I'm gonna suck you off, okay?"

Before Molokov can say anything, Walter ducks his head and takes Molokov's cock in his mouth.

"I've never," Molokov says in Russian, because that's the only safe way to say it.

Walter looks up at him, though, suddenly sharp and focused. "Never?" he echoes, also in Russian.

Fuck. Of _course_ a CIA agent working with the KGB would have been taught at least a little Russian. Molokov flushes angrily. "No," he says. "They never want that."

Walter doesn't ask who _they_ are. He probably knows. CIA men know everything dangerous and personal about the KGB, unfortunately. Molokov feels horribly vulnerable.

But he lets Walter do it.


End file.
